"P.S.—SUNDAY.—My dearest child! Your unhappy mother sends you this. Your deluded sister disappeared last night with the Marquis de Mandevil, leaving this unfinished letter on her table, and your Pa and me both heart-broken. I am too ill to write any more.
"P.S.—MONDAY.—Dear daughter! Your distressed father sends you this. Your unhappy mother eloped last night with that villain _Alexis_—and all the luggage. I have discovered that he and the Marquis are a couple of sharpers. A pretty week we have made of it!
Your wretched father, BARTHOLOMEW WIGGINS."
"Mr. Hume moved for a list of all Commissions issued between the 1st of April, 1833, and the 1st of April, 1837, and of the expenses incurred thereon."
Twenty times have I taken my pen, And began my dear Julia's name, Twenty times have I dropped it again, For I'm burning all over with shame.
How lucky I am to possess A kind friend to rely on, like you! And—'tis shocking—I'm bound to confess That my billets are all billets-_do_.
But to come to the point, dearest dear,— Your affection will pardon it all— You must know, the long thread of our year Is wound up by an annual ball.
Only think! in this dismal abode To have nothing that's stylish or new! We are centuries out of the mode, Though we live in _a manor_, 'tis true.
And I want a few trifles in haste; 'Tis too bad—for you've plenty to do— But I know you've such excellent taste, And I'll leave it entirely to you.
So get me, from Waterloo Place, (What you pay I shall never regard) Twenty yards of the best Brussels lace, At exactly two guineas a yard.
From Harding's twelve yards of French satin, That beautiful pearly-white hue— 'Tis a matter, I know, that you're pat in, So I'll leave it entirely to you.
Of course, there can be no objection To make it a bargain quite plain, That if it don't suit my complexion You'll trouble them with it again.
Five bouquets of roses from Foster's, And a circlet of white Maraboût— (I consider all others' impostors, But I leave that entirely to you.)
_Un oiseau paradis_ may be sent To surmount a _chapeau paille de riz_ For mamma—for she's never content— How different, dear Julia, from me!
There is but one man in the town, Who can make me a white satin shoe; Do find him, and send me some down, So I'll leave it entirely to you.